


it's always about gods with you, isn't it?

by titus (lostillusion)



Series: The Witch & the Priest [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, Introspection, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, inspired by future past convo with noire that made me :'(, look at that titus is finally going to write something hetero, self indulgent, shocking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-25 23:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9852533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostillusion/pseuds/titus
Summary: Libra and Tharja go book shopping in the middle of the desert.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi my name is titus and the three (3) hetero ships i like in fe:a is this, lissa/henry, and sumia/fredrick

She says in a nonchalant way, without malice; without spite; it was a simple, natural way of asking—like how his day went. But instead of being the inciting piece of conversation, it was an interruption. A stop in his own words, cutting him like a knife. He stills.

She waits, even turns away from the tome she was examining—dare he say, lose interest in it as seen from her placing it back neatly, he notes, among its brethren in the bazaar—as the silence stretches and she is losing patience.

Tharja says it again, with the same lack of fire to her words. There is no quipped eyebrow, no folded arms, it was just her, stagnant and off to the side of the road, surrounded by the musk of books and sand. Yet, with her patience running thin as if it were lit on fire and a dynamite pack was at the end of it, Libra could not bring the words to respond to her statement.

Instead he stares. His arms are stuck to his sides like molasses. Another moment flashes by and Tharja goes back to her rummaging, lighting the action around them. It shocks Libra, that he had lost the travel of time whilst trapped by her stare. It frightens him, how easily absorbed he becomes under her gaze.

He goes back to negotiating with the merchant. However, he keeps an eye on the tome Tharja was thumbing around, and makes a haste decision to buy it with the extra pocket money he happened to have. The priest makes plans to give it to her soon, but the day bustles with the crowd and it is almost nightfall before Libra can sit down in the shade of the Church. Tharja settles beside him, her fingers fidgeting on a page of a book she ended up picking up. (The woman was a demon, being already close to ninety percent done with it despite only picking it up that afternoon. However, it was something of a short read, if the size of the text was any giveaway.)

He takes a moment to breathe in the quiet. The church they hid themselves away in was a bit run down, out of the lack of a head and the only powers holding it up being four, relatively young nuns. Libra pities them silently, staring up at the crumbling statue of Naga, and casually scolding himself for wasting his pocket change on a gift rather than using it for the much needed donation of this church. His scolding quiets as Tharja uncrosses her legs to cross them again, closing the book. There is a blank look on her face that Libra has come to know of as disappointment with a mix of dissatisfaction. His voice opens itself to the air before he can stop himself.

“Was it not a pleasurable read?”

Tharja cracks her neck in a way that is graceful, her head staying tilted as she thought of a response. “Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t.” She pauses again, her hand lingering on the nape of her neck as it slowly slides off to unite once more to her side. “If I could describe an accurate feeling to it, it would be like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.”

“Swaying back and forth between hitting your tastes and traveling as far away from it as possible?”

“Yes, in so many words.” Libra is careful in pointing out the irony in her statement. Instead, his eyes naturally focused on her small movements. Her hand once on her neck was back to the book, flipping it from page to page. “How would you like the sound of: ‘Though the winter night had begun to gnaw at her toes, she quicken to huddle the person next to her for the sake of their own warmth, rather than hers’?”

There was a thought that immediately lit in Libra’s head, but he was wary of advertising it. “It certainly depends on which response you’re expecting.”

Her frown deepens into a thin line. He holds back a chuckle and she is quick to pinch any part of skin he leaves revealed. “Mention one word of the good nature in humanity and I’ll drop you so fast you’ll believe you’ve fallen into the wrong side of a Rexcalibur tome.”

He shrugs, some hair falling from behind his ear that he is quick to retuck back. The truth is a bit heavy on his tongue—something that never quite gone away from the transition into priesthood—as he responds thusly: “Then I would say that it’s endearing for her to do such a thing. As clichéd as it is.” The holy man is quick to add, seeing the shadowy gaze of his companion. “Are you reading a romance novel?”

“Yes and no.” Tharja shifts her legs again, was she feeling sore? Admittedly, Libra was too, there was so much a flat wooden bench could do as a resting area. He makes a small reminder to find a small inn for them to stay the night, or search for suitable areas to camp before their backs start to hurt.

She sniffs, again flipping through the book, searching. She brightens when she finds it. “How about: ‘the pain in her stomach is blinding as it was twisting her insides. There was blood to be found in any place in her cotton bed. In the sheets, on her thighs, perhaps even bits of her flesh were hiding in the spread threads of her hair’?” He does not need to reply for her to cackle at his expense. “Relax, it’s just the main character giving birth,” her teeth makes a noise as she struggles to hide her growing smile, “to something equivalent to Grima.”

“Now that’s just antagonizing me.” He is quick to jump to, but there is truly no offense taken in this childish game they share. She cackles once more, before ultimately closing the book.

“Ah, yes, but it is only the world of fiction—where anything can happen. From improbable romance stories to the horrors of someone’s nightmares. Whatever is the limit to the human imagination is impossible to describe, much less have a feasible thought to where it would draw the line in expressing itself.”

“Is that why, then, that you find yourself fascinated with this piece of writing?”

“In so many words, yes,” she laughs, her head falling back as she looks to the ceiling of the church. Something catches her eye, and her laughter dies down. “Could you tell me then, Libra, where we should draw the line?”

He knows the layering of her question like it is the number of petals to a flower. He breathes, for a short moment, again frozen under her words. The casualness of it, the lack of spice and maliciousness he expects from her is gone. There is a vulnerability, he realizes, in her exposing herself like this, in a way that makes it too apparent of how long they’ve known each other, and how empty their secrets are. There is a pile of saliva he wishes to force down his throat, but it will not go. Instead, he is left staring at her, and she is left waiting for him.

However, unlike last time—unlike the pressures being surrounded by a crowd of people, pushing and shoving pass them—there is only the dust between them in the church. The night breaks through the colorful glass of the window paintings and he could feel the wind sigh against them.

He sighs along with them, as his answer pours from his mouth like a waterfall into a lake.


End file.
